An  English  Poet 


OF  COURSE  you  remember— 
gratefully— the,  TV.  M.  Letts  ver-e 
volume  called  "Spires  of  Oxford.'' 
Issued  in  October  by  the  Buttons,  it 
contains  a  number  of  delightful  lyrics, 
some  of  them  markedly  popular  last 
year  under  the  book's  earlier  title, 
"Halloween  Eve  and  Other  Poems  of 
the  War."  But  did  you — do  you — 
know  that  TV.  M.  Letts  is  a  woman? 
She  is,  bless  her!  Winifred  M.  Letts 
of  London,  Eng.,  and  here  she  is. 


SONGS   FROM    LEINSTER 


SONGS 
FROM    LEINSTER 


W.    M.    LETTS 

AUTHOR  OF 
A  ROUGH  WAY"  AND  "DIANA  DETHRONED' 


SECOND  IMPRESSION 


PHILADELPHIA 

DAVID     McKAY,    PUBLISHER 

604-8  So.   WASHINGTON   SQUARE 


FEINTED  IN  GRKAT  BRITAIN 


TO 

MY    MOTHER 


2061114 


CONTENTS 

IN   A  WEXFORD  VILLAGE 

PAGE 

THE  HABEOUB         ........  3 

STOEM     ..........  5 

THE  OLD  WEXFORD  WOMAN 8 

DROWNDED 11 

IN  SERVICE .13 

GRANDEUR 15 

THE  CHOICE 18 

A  SERMON 20 

BLESSING 22 

HALLOWS'  E'EN      ........  24 

DAN  O'SHEE 27 

IN   DUBLIN 

THE  TOWN 31 

IN  THE  STREET 33 

QUANTITY  AND  QUALITY 34 

MIND  YOURSELF 35 

THE  CRIB  (In  the  Carmelite  Church,  Dublin)  ...  36 


CONTENTS 

PAOE 

THE  BOLD  UNBIDDABLE  CHILD       '  .....  38 

FOR  SIXPENCE         ........  40 

SYNGE'S  GBAVE       ........  42 

ANGELS  UNAWABES          .......  44 

Three  Slum  Portraits 

I.    FBOM  A  WINDOW  ("  THE  RETOBT  COURTEOUS  ")  ,  47 

II.    GOD'S  IMAGE       .......  49 

III.    LITTLE  PETEB  MORBISSEY  .....  50 

CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  WORKHOUSE       .....  52 

THE  LITTLE  CHILDHEB  IN  THE  STREET  ....  55 


A   FIRE   OF  TURF 


A  FIRE  OP  TURF    

.       59 

THE  CHAPEL  ON  THE  HILL    .... 

.       61 

VOICES   

.       63 

THE  FAIR       

.      65 

QUESTIONS       

.       67 

COWSLIP  TIME         

.       69 

SCARED  

.      70 

.       72 

THE  WEST  WIND    

74 

SONGS   IN   THREE  COUNTIES 

SAYS  SHB 79 

SNOW 82 

viii 


CONTENTS 

PAG* 

BOYS 84 

MY  BLESSING  BE  ON  WATEEPOBD 85 

THIEF  OF  THE  WORLD    .....  86 

THE  KERBY  Cow 88 

SPRING,  THE  TRAVELLING  MAN       ....  91 

THE  BICH  WOMAN  .....  93 

GLORNY'S  WEIR 95 

IRISH  SKIES 97 

THE  KIND  COMPANION 99 

SONG 


DREAMS  . 
BLESSINGS 


SCHOLARS 


101 

102 


104 
105 


PRAYER  FOR  A  LITTLE  CHILD 107 

TIM,  AN  IRISH  TERRIER  ....  .108 

To  C.  L.  G.,  IN  GRATITUDE    ....  .     no 

A  SOFT  DAY .111 

THE  CHRISTMAS  GUEST   ....  .113 


These  songs  have  appeared  for  the  most 
part  in  the  Spectator  and  Westminster 
Gazette,  others  in  the  Saturday  Review, 
Nation,  Cornhill,  and  the  Odd  Volume. 


IN   A  WEXFORD  VILLAGE 


THE   HARBOUR 

I  THINK  if  I  lay  dying  in  some  land 

Where  Ireland  is  no  more  than  just  a  name, 
My  soul  would  travel  back  to  find  that  strand 
From  whence  it  came. 

I'd  see  the  harbour  in  the  evening  light, 

The  old  men  staring  at  some  distant  ship, 
The  fishing-boats  they  fasten  left  and  right 
Beside  the  slip. 

The  sea-wrack  lying  on  the  wind-swept  shore, 

The  grey  thorn  bushes  growing  in  the  sand : 
Our  Wexford  coast  from  Arklow  to  Cahore — 
My  native  land. 

The  little  houses  climbing  up  the  hill, 
Sea  daisies  growing  in  the  sandy  grass, 

3  B2 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

The  tethered  goats  that  wait  large-eyed  and  still 
To  watch  you  pass. 

The  women  at  the  well  with  dripping  pails, 

Their  men  colloguing  by  the  harbour  wall, 
The  coils  of  rope,  the  nets,  the  old  brown  sails, 
Fd  know  them  all. 

And  then  the  Angelus — I'd  surely  see 

The  swaying  bell  against  a  golden  sky, 
So  God,  Who  kept  the  love  of  home  in  me, 
Would  let  me  die. 


STORM 

THERE'S  a  storm  is  blowing  up  from  the  sea 
(That  Christ  in  mercy  may  save  us  all), 
For  the  waves  are  lepping  the  harbour  wall, 
An'  dirty  weather  it's  sure  to  be. 
The  storm  dog  shone  in  the  morning  sky, 
And  the  waves  to  the  west  are  ten  foot  high. 
God  in  Heaven  !  the  waves  are  white — 
Let  You  watch  near  the  boats  to-night ! 

For  it's  sure  enough  when  the  shadows  fall 
Sorrow  will  come  for  some  of  us  here, 
In  the  cold  black  night  and  its  cold  black  fear 
Fear  of  the  sea  and  fear  of  the  squall. 
A  woeful  thing  it  is  to  be  wed 
To  a  man  who  looks  to  the  sea  for  bread ! 
Holy  Mary,  pity  our  plight, 
Let  you  pray  for  our  men  to-night ! 
5 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

There's  Patrick  is  in  it  and  Christy  too, 
A  soft  young  lad,  an'  he  not  sixteen — 
An1  his  brother  drownded  last  Hallow  E'en. 
God  help  his  mother,  what  will  she  do  ? 
She  had  a  right  to  have  bid  him  stay, 
But  the  young  lads  fret  till  they  go  away. 
God  keep  Christy  and  John  in  sight, 
Save  them  both  from  their  death  to-night ! 


There  is  Daniel  Connor  and  young  Tom  Byrne, 
With  a  child  at  home  not  three  days  old ; 
But  it's  hungry  the  child  will  be  and  cold, 
If  there's  no  man  in  it,  nor  wage  to  earn ; 
An'  lonesome  herself  will  be  this  day 
That's  sick  and  weak,  an'  her  man  away. 
Heart  of  Heaven,  pity  her  fright, 
Send  her  comfort  this  long  black  night ! 


The  wind  of  the  world  is  lashing  the  sea, 
The  waves  lep  high  like  men  at  a  fair, 
Wicked  old  men  with  their  silvery  hair. 
Sorrow  and  weeping  for  some  one  there'll  be, 
6 


STORM 

Toil  for  the  men,  an1  danger  and  fear, 

With  the  cold  black  death  that  is  waiting  near. 

God  Almighty,  pity  their  plight, 

Let  Christ  walk  on  the  waves  to-night. 


THE   OLD  WEXFORD   WOMAN 

WHAT  do  I  think  of  the  women  that's  in  it  ? 

Och  !  little  enough ; 

If  you  offered  them  flax  would  they  throuble  to  spint? 
Faith  !  I've  a  notion  before  they'd  begin  it 

You'd  wait  for  your  stuff. 

Would  they  pick  wool  from  the  hedges  and  ditches  ? 

We  did  in  my  day. 

But  it's  easier  plans  they  have  now  to  make  riches : 
Why  would   you   sew  when  machines  makes  your 
stitches  ? 

Sure,  that's  what  they  say. 

Tis  truth  I'd  no  hand  for  making  a  letter, 

But  where  was  the  lack  ? 

An'  I  couldn't  read  books  any  more  than  that  setter. 
But  for  baking  or  stitching  there  wasn't  a  better, 

Or  making  a  brack. 
8 


THE   OLD    WEXFORD    WOMAN 

The  black  fasts  were  kept  without  hesitation, 

I  tell  you  no  lie. 
Arrah !   now  there's  no  manner  of  strength  in  the 

nation, 

It's  sorra  a  one  but  needs  dispensation 
For  fear  they  would  die. 

The  way  they  are  now  they're  seeking  their  pleasure, 

The  days  are  too  slow. 
They'd  look  twice  at  a  spade  were  they  hunting  for 

treasure, 

It's  towns  that  they  want,  and  evenings  of  leisure 
To  streel  to  and  fro. 

What  is  it  they're  afther  there  in  the  city 

That  takes  them  away  ? 
It's  new  clothes  they'll  be  buying  to  make  themselves 

pretty; 
No  value  at  all — an'  sure  that's  a  pity. 

They'll  know  it  some  day. 

What  do  I  think  of  the  race  that  we're  rarin'  ? 
They're  not  worth  my  shawl. 
9 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

For    it's    sooner    they're    threadbare     an'    nobody 

carin'. 
Mine  was  the  days — but  there's  no  good  com- 

parin'. 

God  help  us  all. 


10 


DROWNDED 

TOM  CASSIDY  is  drownded — 

That  God  may  keep  his  soul. 
His  body  floats  in  the  deep  cold  sea, 
An'  only  the  herring  and  mackerel  shoal 

Can  tell  where  Tom  may  be. 

May  Christ  have  pity  on  his  soul, — 

An1  that  He'll  pity  me. 

Tom  threatened  that  he'd  bring  me 

Strange  shells  from  foreign  sands, 
An1  Chiney  silk  that  would  make  a  gown, 
With  three  ostrich  feathers  from  foreign  lands 

All  creamy  white  and  brown. 

My  grief!     I  stand  with  empty  hands, 

An1  him  and  all  gone  down. 

There's  none  can  ever  tell  me 
How  long  he  may  have  striven 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

With  the  cold  black  waves  that  choked  his  life, 
An'  him  with  the  sins  on  his  soul  unshriven, 

In  that  his  mortal  strife. 

God's  mercy  on  the  unforgiven, 

And  me  his  promised  wife. 

My  curse  upon  the  ocean, 

My  curse  upon  the  wind  ! 
That's  taken  my  heart's  bright  core  on  me, 
An'  made  him  a  sepulchre  none  can  find 

But  them  that's  in  the  sea. 

Why  would  they  leave  the  old  behind 

And  take  the  young  and  free  ? 


12 


IN   SERVICE 

LITTLK  Nellie  Cassidy  has  got  a  place  in  town, 

She  wears  a  fine  white  apron, 

She  wears  a  new  black  gown, 

An'  the  quarest  little  cap  at  all  with  straymers  hang- 
ing down. 

I  met  her  one  fine  evening  stravagin'  down  the  street, 

A  feathered  hat  upon  her  head, 

And  boots  upon  her  feet. 

"  Och,  Mick,"  says  she,  "  may  God  be  praised  that 
you  and  I  should  meet. 

"  It's  lonesome  in  the  city  with  such  a  crowd,"  says 
she; 

"  I'm  lost  without  the  bog-land, 
I'm  lost  without  the  sea, 

An'  the  harbour  an'  the  fishing-boats  that  sail  out 
fine  and  free. 

'3 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

"  Fd  give  a  golden  guinea  to  stand  upon  the  shore, 

To  see  the  big  waves  lepping, 

To  hear  them  splash  and  roar, 

To  smell  the  tar  and  the  drying  nets,  I'd  not  be 
asking  more. 

"  To  see  the  small  white  houses,  their  faces  to  the 
sea, 

The  childher  in  the  doorway, 
Or  round  my  mother's  knee  ; 

For  Fra  strange  and  lonesome  missing  them,  God 
keep  them  all,"  says  she. 

Little   Nellie   Cassidy   earns  fourteen   pounds    and 
more, 

Waiting  on  the  quality, 
And  answering  the  door — 

But   her   heart  is  some   place   far   away   upon  the 
Wexford  shore. 


GRANDEUR 

POOR  Mary  Byrne  is  dead, 
An'  all  the  world  may  see 

Where  she  lies  upon  her  bed 
Just  as  fine  as  quality. 

She  lies  there  still  and  white, 
With  candles  either  hand 

That'll  guard  her  through  the  night 
Sure  she  never  was  so  grand. 

She  holds  her  rosary, 

Her  hands  clasped  on  her  breast. 
Just  as  dacint  as  can  be 

In  the  habit  she's  been  dressed. 

In  life  her  hands  were  red 

With  every  sort  of  toil, 
But  they're  white  now  she  is  dead, 

An'  they've  sorra  mark  of  soil. 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

The  neighbours  come  and  go, 
They  kneel  to  say  a  prayer. 

I  wish  herself  could  know 
Of  the  way  she's  lyin'  there. 

It  was  work  from  morn  till  night, 
And  hard  she  earned  her  bread  : 

But  I'm  thinking  she's  a  right 
To  be  aisy  now  she's  dead. 

When  other  girls  were  gay, 

At  wedding  or  at  fair, 
She'd  be  toiling  all  the  day, 

Not  a  minyit  could  she  spare. 

An'  no  one  missed  her  face, 
Or  sought  her  in  a  crowd, 

But  to-day  they  throng  the  place 
Just  to  see  her  in  her  shroud. 

The  creature  in  her  life 

Drew  trouble  with  each  breath  ; 
She  was  just  "  poor  Jim  Byrne's  wife 

But  she's  lovely  in  her  death. 
16 


GRANDEUR 

I  wish  the  dead  could  see 

The  splendour  of  a  wake, 
For  it's  proud  herself  would  be 

Of  the  keening  that  they  make. 

Och !  little  Mary  Byrne, 
You  welcome  every  guest, 

Is  it  now  you  take  your  turn 
To  be  merry  with  the  rest  ? 

I'm  thinking  you'd  be  glad, 

Though  the  angels  make  your  bed, 
Could  you  see  the  care  we've  had 

To  respect  you — now  you're  dead. 


THE   CHOICE 

SAINT  JOSEPH,  let  you  send  me  a  comrade  true  and 

kind, 
For  the  one  I'm  after  seeking,  it  beats  the  world  to 

find. 

There's  Christy  Sheets  a  decent  lad,  but  he's  too  lank 

and  tall ; 
And  Shaneen  Burke  will  never  do,  for  he's  a  foot 

too  small. 

John  Heffernan  has  gold  enough,  but  sure  he'd  have 

me  bet 
With  talkin'  of  the  wife  that  died  a  year  before 

we  met. 

Young  Pat  Delaney  suits  my  mind,  but  he's  a  thrifle 

wild; 
And  Tim  I've  known  too  well  itself  from  since  I  was  a 

child. 

18 


THE   CHOICE 

Old  Dennis   Morrissey  has  pigs,   and  cattle  in  the 

byre, 
But,  someways,  I  don't  fancy  him  the  far  side  o'  the 

fire. 

I'd  have  Saint  Joseph  choose  me  a  comrade  rich  and 

kind— 
And  if  it's  Terry  Sullivan — maybe  I  mightn't  mind. 


A  SERMON 

THE  fish  have  left  the  coast  a  while  ago, 
Bad  luck  it  is  that's  in  it,  faith  !  that's  so, 

For  there's  little  you  can  win 

When  you'll  scarcely  see  a  fin, 
An'  when  food  is  dear  to  buy  and  wages  low. 

Tis  what  his  Reverence  says  to  us  this  day : 
"  Need  yous  wonder  that  the  fish  are  gone  away  ? 
'Twas  the  sights  they  saw  on  shore 
That  had  scared  them  more  and  more, 
And  so,  hadn't  they  a  right  to  swim  away  ? 

"  'Twas  the  couples  that  were  gaming  on  the  sands, 
Linking  arms  they  were,  maybe,  or  squeezin'  hands, 
Now,  there's  not  a  herring  sprat 
That  could  stand  the  like  o'  that— 
So  they're  seeking  for  more  Christianable  lands. 


A    SERMON 

"  But  let  yous  mend  your  manners  now,"  says  he 
"  Let  the  lads  all  walk  together  decently, 

Let  the  girls  not  be  so  bold, 

An1  maybe,  before  you're  old, 
The  fish  will  thravel  back  across  the  sea." 


•21 


BLESSING 

AT  night  I  sit  beside  the  hearth, 
And  watch  the  glowing  sod  ; 

I  tell  my  beads  and  say  a  name 
That's  known  to  me  and  God. 

That's  surely  known  to  me  and  God, 

For  every  night  and  day 
I  call  a  blessing  on  the  one 

That  travels  far  away. 

That  travels  far  away  itself 

To  earn  a  stranger's  gold 
May  God's  love  be  a  mantle  now 

To  shield  him  from  the  cold ; 

To  shield  him  from  the  bitter  cold, 

And  from  a  bitter  tongue  ; 
It's  harsh  and  strange  are  foreign  lands 

To  one  that's  soft  and  young. 


BLESSING 

To  one  whose  heart  is  hot  and  young, 
The  thought  of  home  is  dear, 

O  Heart  of  Christ,  shield  him  I  love, 
And  hold  him  warm  and  near. 

Hold  him  that  travels  warm  and  near, 

And  keep  his  spirit  white  ; 
Be  safety  to  him  through  the  day, 

And  shelter  through  the  night. 

Be  shelter  through  the  long,  dark  night, 

Wherever  he  may  be. 
Send  thoughts  of  Ireland  to  his  dreams. 

And  keep  him  true  to  me. 


HALLOWS'  E'EN 

THE  girls  are  laughing  with  the  boys,  and  gaming 

by  the  fire, 
They're    wishful,    every  one   of    them  to  see    her 

heart's  desire. 
'Twas  Thesie  cut  the  barnbrack  and  found  the  ring 

inside, 
Before  next  Hallows1  E'en  has  dawned  herself  will  be 

a  bride. 
But  little   Mollie  stands   alone  outside   the   cabin 

door, 
And  breaks  her  heart  for  one  the  waves  threw  dead 

upon  the  shore. 

Twas  Katie's  nut  lepped  from  the  hearth,  and  left 

poor  Pat's  alone, 
But  Ellen's  stayed  by  Christy  Byrne's  upon  the  wide 

hearthstone. 
An'  all  the  while  the  childher  bobbed  for  apples  set 

afloat, 

24 


HALLOWS'  E'EN 

The  old  men  smoked  their  pipes  and  talked  about  the 

foundered  boat. 
But  Mollie  walked  upon  the  cliff,  and  never  feared 

the  rain ; 
She  called  the  name  of  one  she  loved  and  bid  him 

come  again. 

Young  Peter  pulled  the  cabbage-stump  to  win  a 

wealthy  wife, 
Rosanna  threw  the  apple-peel  to  know  who'd  share 

her  life ; 
And   Lizzie  had  a  looking-glass  she'd  hid  in  some 

dark  place 
To  try   if  there,  foreninst   her  own,  she'd  see  her 

comrade's  face. 
But  Mollie  walked  along  the  quay  where  Terry's  feet 

had  trod, 
And  sobbed  her  grief  out  in  the  night,  with  no  one 

near  but  God. 

She  heard  the  laughter  from  the  house,  she  heard  the 

fiddle  played ; 
She  called  her  dead  love  to  her  side — why  would  she 

be  afraid  ? 

25 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

She  took  his  cold  hands  in  her  own,  she  had  no  thought 

of  dread, 
And  not  a  star  looked  out  to  watch  the  living  kiss 

the  dead. 

The  lads  are  gaming  with  the  girls,  and  laughing  by 

the  fire. 
But  Mollie,  in  the  cold,  dark  night,  has  found  her 

heart's  desire. 


DAN   O'SHEE 

IF  I  could  fetch  the  moon  down  from  the  sky, 
I'd  give  her  for  a  lamp  to  Dan  O'Shee ; 

So  he'd  never  fear  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
Or  the  depth  o1  dark  upon  the  winter  sea. 

If  every  beech  leaf  in  the  wood  were  gold, 
I'd  gather  gold  all  day  and  never  tire. 

It's  sorra  care  should  come  the  winter  long, 
With  the  turf  stack  full  and  cattle  in  the  byre. 

If  I  should  win  the  keys  of  Heaven's  gates, 
And  find  them  open  wide  to  welcome  me, 

Fd  ask  of  God  to  bid  them  wait  awhile, 
Till  I'd  enter  side  by  side  with  Dan  O'Shee. 


IN  DUBLIN 


THE   TOWN 

I  wonder  now  does  God  look  down 
Upon  the  town, 

And  what  He's  thinking  when  He  sees 

The  people  swarming  there  like  bees ; 

The  alleys  and  the  dirty  lanes, 

The  moidher  of  the  trams  and  trains  ; 

The  stately  carriages  galore, 
And  then  the  poor, 

Who  traipis  in  the  bitter  sleet, 

With  broken  boots  upon  their  feet. 

I  wonder  what  He  thinks  at  night, 

When  angels  set  the  stars  alight, 

And  in  the  town  the  lamps  are  bright. 

Does  He  watch  gaming  rascals  cheat, 

Old  drunken  villyains  curse  and  fight, 

While  girls,  grown  shameless,  walk  the  streets  i 

Always  God  hears  the  Cherubim 
Sing  praise  to  Him. 
31 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

But  where  He's  sitting  on  His  throne 
Can  He  hear  starving  women  moan  ? 
Above  the  harping  of  each  saint 
Are  little  childher's  voices  faint  ? 
Can  He  in  all  the  music  hear 

Them  sob  for  fear  ? 
On  dirty  pavements  babies  sprawl, 
With  them  to  mind  them  scarce  less  small. 
It's  sure  God  hears  the  cries  of  these, 
And  all  the  oaths  and  blasphemies 
Of  thim  that's  never  on  their  knees. 
He  hears  the  drunkards  shout  and  bawl 
Above  the  angels'  melodies — 
I  wonder  what  God  thinks  at  all  ? 


IN   THE   STREET 

I'VE  seen  a  woman  kneeling  down 

In  the  dirty  street. 
An1  she  took  no  heed  of  her  tattered  gown, 

Or  the  broken  boots  on  her  feet ; 
An'  she  took  no  heed  of  the  people  there, 
Rich  and  poor  that  would  stand  and  stare 
At  a  woman  kneeling  in  prayer 
In  the  street. 

For  the  thing  that  she  spied 
At  the  back  of  the  great  shop  window  pane 
Was  a  cross  with  a  Figure  crucified. 
She  took  no  heed  of  the  driving  rain, 
An'  thim  that  would  turn  to  look  again ; 
She  took  no  heed  of  the  noisy  street, 
But  knelt  down  there  at  her  Saviour's  feet. 
What  matter  at  all  what  the  place  might  be  ? 
To  one  poor  soul  it  was  Calvary. 

33  D 


QUANTITY   AND   QUALITY 

THE  poor  have  childher  and  to  spare, 
But  with  the  quality  they're  rare, 
Where  money's  scarce  the  childher's  many, 
Where  money's  thick  you'll  scarce  find  any. 
Some  wanted  here,  too  many  there — 
It's  quare. 

Now,  if  the  rich  and  poor  could  share, 
There'd  soon  be  childher  everywhere  ; 
But  God  have  pity  on  the  mother 
That  gives  her  child  up  to  another ; 
An'  so  you'll  find  a  mansion  bare, 
A  cabin  rich  in  all  that's  fair — 
It's  quare. 


34 


MIND   YOURSELF 

"  JUST  mind  yourself,"  says  he  to  me, 

"  Avoid  the  divil's  company. 

The  wage  he  gives  won't  make  yous  fat, 

A  greasy  coat,  a  broken  hat, 

An'  trousers  patched  at  either  knee. 

"A  man  who  drives  a  car  needs  be 
Aware  to  mind  he's  not  too  free, 
But  sober  as  a  cardinal's  cat — 
Just  mind  yourself." 

"  Avoid  them  treating  lads,"  says  he, 
"  An'  join  the  men's  Sodality. 
Don't  cock  your  little  finger,  Pat, 
There's  ruin  in  the  like  o'  that, 
And  riches  in  sobriety — 
Just  mind  yourself." 

To  mind  oneself.    To  avoid  drinking  too  freely. 
Cock  the  little  finger.    The  action  of  a  man  holding  a  glass  to 
his  lips. 

35 


THE   CRIB 

IN  THE  CARMELITE  CHURCH,    DUBLIN 

FORENINST  the  Crib  there  kneels  a  little  child, 
Behind  him  in  her  ragged  shawl  his  mother, 
For  all  the  ages  that  have  passed  one  child 
Still  finds  God  in  another. 

Now,  look-a  how  he  wonders  when  he  sees 
The  shepherds  with  their  lambs  beside  the  manger, 
The  cattle,  poor  dumb  creatures,  looking  down 
Upon  the  little  Stranger. 

An1  there^s  our  Saviour  lying  in  the  hay, 
Behind  Him  in  her  shawl  His  watchful  mother ; 
Two  mothers  with  their  sons,  each  knows  the  joys 
And  sorrows  of  the  other. 

The  father  kneels  away  there  by  the  door, 
The  hands  he  clasps  in  prayer  are  rough  with  labour  ; 
36 


THE   CRIB 

The  likes  of  him  that  hunger  and  that  toil 
Once  called  Saint  Joseph  neighbour. 

Outside  the  Church  the  people  travel  by, 
The  sick  and  sad,  the  needy,  the  neglected. 
But  just  across  the  threshold  Bethlehem  lies, 
Where  none  will  be  rejected. 


37 


THE  BOLD  UNBIDDABLE  CHILD 

Now  what  is  he  after  below  in  the  street  ? 

(God  save  us,  he's  terrible  wild !) 
Is  it  stirrin'  the  gutter  around  with  his  feet  ? 
He'd  best  be  aware  when  the  two  of  us  meet. 

Come  in  out  o'  that, 

Come  in, 

You  bold  unbiddable  child  ! 

He's  after  upsetting  the  Widow  Foy's  pail — 

She'll  murder  him  yet,  Widow  Foy  ! 
An'  he's  pulling  the  massacree  dog  by  the  tail, 
By  the  hokey  !  that  young  one  is  born  for  the  gaol. 

Come  in  out  o'  that, 

Come  in, 

You  rogue  of  a  villyainous  boy  ! 

Go  tell  him  his  mother  is  seeking  a  stick 
For  a  boy  that  is  terrible  wild. 
38 


THE  BOLD    UNBIDDABLE   CHILD 

If  he  cares  for  his  feelings  he'd  better  be  quick, 
Och !  he'll  draw  in  his  horns  when  he  sees  me,  will 
Mick. 

Come  in  out  o1  that, 

Come  in, 

You  bold  unbiddable  child  ! 


39 


FOR  SIXPENCE 

In  the  old  days  when  the  pit  seats  at  the  Abbey  Theatre, 
Dublin,  cost  sixpence  at  matinees. 

FOR  sixpence  I  have  been  to  Tir-na-n-oge 

(No  more  I  had  to  pay) 
And  looked  my  fill  at  kings  and  gods  and  fools — 

May  God  be  with  the  day. 


For  sixpence  I  have  seen  the  heart  of  mirth 

And  sorrow's  stricken  face ; 
Have  laughed  aloud  and  dried  my  covert  tears 

Before  I  left  my  place. 

For  sixpence  I  have  left  the  world  outside 
Rainswept  and  chill  and  mean, 

And  been  a  guest  in  Emain  Madia's  halls, 
Companion  to  a  queen. 

40 


FOR  SIXPENCE 

And  all  for  sixpence  I  have  heard  fine  talk 
From  playboys,  rogues  and  tramps, 

And  so  forgot  the  east  wind  in  the  streets, 
The  fog,  the  dim-eyed  lamps. 

Sixpence  the  passport  to  this  splendid  world 

Enchanted,  sad  or  gay. 
And  you  the  playboy  of  them  all  I  saw 

For  sixpence — William  Fay. 


SYNGE'S   GRAVE 

MY  grief !  that  they  have  laid  you  in  the  town 
Within  the  moidher  of  its  thousand  wheels 
And  busy  feet  that  travel  up  and  down. 

They  had  a  right  to  choose  a  better  bed 
Far  off  among  the  hills  where  silence  steals 
In  on  the  soul  with  comfort-bringing  tread. 

The  curlew  would  have  keened  for  you  all  day, 
The  wind  across  the  heather  cried  Ochone 
For  sorrow  of  his  brother  gone  away. 

In  Glenmalure,  far  off  from  town-born  men, 
Why  would  they  not  have  let  you  sleep  alone 
At  peace  there  in  the  shadow  of  the  glen  ? 

To  tend  your  grave  you  should  have  had  the  sun, 
The  fraughan  and  the  moss,  the  heather  brown 
And  gorse  turned  gold  for  joy  of  Spring  begun. 
42 


SYNGE'S  GRAVE 

You  should  have  had  your  brothers,  wind  and  rain, 
And  in  the  dark  the  stars  all  looking  down 
To  ask,  "  When  will  he  take  the  road  again  ?  " 

The  herdsmen  of  the  lone  back  hills,  that  drive 
The  mountain  ewes  to  some  far  distant  Fair, 
Would  stand  and  say,  "  We  knew  him  well  alive. 

That   God  may  rest  his  soul ! "     Then   they  would 

pass 

Into  the  silence  brooding  everywhere, 
And  leave  you  to  your  sleep  below  the  grass. 

But  now  among  these  alien  city  graves, 

What  way  are  you  without  the  rough  wind's  breath, 

You  free-born  son  of  mountains  and  wild  waves  ? 

Ah  !  God  knows  better — here  you've  no  abode, 

So  long  ago  you  had  the  laugh  at  death, 

And  rose  and  took  the  windswept  mountain  road. 


43 


ANGELS   UNAWARES 

SHE  minds  the  childher  all  the  day, 
A  baby  tucked  inside  her  shawl ; 

Faulting  the  young  ones  when  they  stray 
Along  the  street  beyond  her  call. 

Her  mother  has  not  time  to  spare 
For  sittin'  under  chick  or  child, 

So  Katey  has  the  lot  to  care, 

The  lads  to  keep  from  running  wild. 

The  sense  comes  soon  to  thim  that's  poor, 
Herself  could  scarcely  walk  when  she 

Made  room  for  younger  ones  galore, 
And  rocked  the  baby  on  her  knee. 

Barefooted,  with  her  share  of  dirt, 
But  steadfast  for  her  years  is  Kate  ; 

The  likes  of  her  don't  come  to  hurt, 
Though  sure  she's  only  rising  eight. 

44 


ANGELS    UNAWARES 

You'll  meet  her  streeling  through  the  rain, 
The  baby  sleeping  on  her  breast, 

Or  by  some  big  shop  window  pane 
Lookin"1  how  quality  is  dressed. 

Happy  as  little  kings  they  stand, 
Staring  at  cakes  or  sweets  or  toys  ; 

She  has  a  sister  by  the  hand, 

Her  skirts  are  clutched  by  two  small  boys. 

Their  faces  pressed  against  the  glass, 
They  do  be  lettin'  on  to  choose 

The  best  of  everything  they  pass, 
Toy  soldiers,  dolls,  or  scarlet  shoes. 

Then  through  the  chapel  door  they  streel 
When  Katey  bids  to  say  a  prayer ; 

Hand  clasped  in  hand  the  young  ones  kneel 
To  beg  God  have  them  in  His  care. 

There's  other  girls  in  this  same  street 
As  careless  as  the  breeze  of  June  ; 

They  do  be  dancing  on  their  feet 
The  time  the  organ  plays  a  tune. 
45 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

A  skipping  rope  is  their  delight, 

The  lamp-post  serves  them  for  a  swing, 

You'll  say  that  Katey  has  a  right 
To  jump  with  them  and  dance  and  sing. 

You  think  her  life  is  hard,  may-be  ? 

You'd  have  her  playing  bat  and  ball  ? 
But  sure  the  best  of  games,  says  she, 

Is  playing  mother  to  them  all. 


THREE  SLUM  PORTRAITS 

I 
FROM   A   WINDOW 

("  THE  RETORT  COURTEOUS  ") 
SHE  leans  out  of  her  window  an"  says  she, 
"  You're  growing  woeful  stout  itself  of  late, 
I'd  soon  j  ump  over  you  as  round  you,  Kate," 
With  that  she  laughs  and  throws  a  wink  at  me. 

Twas  some  old  one  she  faulted  down  below. 

"  I  heerd,"  she  says,  "  they  borrowed  your  two  feet 
The  time  they  wanted  flag-stones  for  the  street, 

I  thought  I'd  ask  yourself  now  was  it  so  ?  " 

"  It's  quare,"  says  she,  "  you'll  get  a  shoe  that  size, 
They'll  have  your  likeness  on  the  paper  soon, 
A  foot  that  bet  the  29th  o'  June."  * 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  two  laughing  eyes. 

*  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul. 
47 


SONGS   FROM  LEI&STER 

She  listens  for  a  minyit — then  says  she, 
"  For  all  the  six-foot  polis  in  the  place, 
Next  time  we  meet  I'll  bang  that  off  your  face, 

You'll  learn  to  know  your  betters  so,  maybe." 

No  more  she  says  but  "  Thank  you  for  that  same." 
So  steps  across  the  room  with  hasty  tread, 
And  from  the  dresser  picks  a  fish's  head, 

Then  leans  out  of  her  window  and  takes  aim. 


48 


II 

GOD'S   IMAGE 

MADE  in  God's  image  ?     Look  at  where  he  stands 
Above  there  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 
The  poor  old  porter-shark  daren't  trust  his  feet, 

An1  so  he  grabs  the  lamp  post  with  both  hands. 

Who'd  think  we  live  in  Christianable  lands  ? 

He's  one  o'  thim  old  murdering  roughs  you'll  meet 
Stravagin'  with  their  baskets  through  the  sleet, 

They're  after  picking  cockles  on  the  sands. 

The  dogs,  poor  dacint  creatures,  daren't  come  nigh, 
Thim  with  drink  taken  arn't  so  soft  or  kind. 

So  he  stands  swaying,  bawling  to  the  sky 

Like  some  old  omadhaun  that's  lost  his  mind. 

Made  in  God's  image  ?     Watch  him  stagger  by — 
God's  likeness  there  is  mortal  hard  to  find. 


49 


Ill 

LITTLE   PETER   MORRISSEY 

POOR  little  Peter  Morrissey,  what  way  is  he  at  all  ? 
His  mother's  supping  porter  till  she's  like  to  get  a 

fall, 
And  all  the  work  his  father  does  is  propping  up  a 

wall. 

He's  ne'er  a  shirt  upon  his  back,  nor  ganzy  *  to  his 

name, 
There  never  was  a  pair  of  boots  the  likes  of  him 

could  claim, 
An'  he's  after  treading  on  some  glass  the  way  he's 

walking  lame. 

When  decent  childher  lie  in  bed  you'll  see  him  out  at 
night, 

*  "  Ganzy  " — a  vest  or  jersey. 
50 


LITTLE  PETER  MORRISSEY 

Where   he's  screeching  «  Mail "  and  «  Herald,"  or 

joining  in  a  fight 
To  hold  his  own  with  other  lads,  an'  he  not  half  their 

height. 

You'll  see  him  in  the  winter  time  stravagin'  through 

the  wet ; 
He's  not  so  wishful  to  go  home  where  likely  he'll  be 

bet; 
An'  if  he's  kilt  with  cold  an'  damp,  who  is  there  that 

will  fret? 

Poor  little  Peter  Morrissey,  his  troubles  have  begun, 
And  yet  I've  often  seen  himself  sit  laughing  in  the 

sun, 
And  he's  always  ready  after  school  to  sing  and  lep 

and  run. 

His  mother  likes  the  drink  too  well  to  spare  the 

child  a  toy, 
You'd  think,  maybe,  the  way  he  is  was  far  enough 

from  joy, 
And  yet — there's  time  I  envy  him  the  light  heart  of 

a  boy. 


CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  WORKHOUSE 

IT'S  Christmas  Eve  they  tell  me,  but  in  the  Work- 
house ward 

One  day  is  like  another  an'  both  is  mortal  long. 
What  sort  of  grand  rejoicings  could  the  like  of  us 

afford, 

That's  poor  old  pauper  women  who  could  never 
raise  a  song  ? 

Peace  and  good  will  the  angels  sing 

To  Christianable  people. 
You'll  hear  the  merry  bells  ring  out 
From  every  Dublin  steeple. 

There's  paper  decorations  to  hang  upon  the  wall, 
And  scrubbin'  and  conthrivin' — themselves  is  fear- 
ful clane. 
They're  lettin'  on  it's  Christmas  Eve,  but  troth  !  I'd 

quit  it  all 

To  walk  the  dirty  world  outside  and  see  the  street 
again. 

52 


CHRISTMAS  IN   THE    WORKHOUSE 

Peace  and  good  will  the  angels  sing 

To  every  living  sinner. 
(On  Christmas  Day  the  Guardians  give 

Plum  pudding  for  our  dinner.) 

The  ould  one  that's  beside  me  she  coughs  with  every 

breath, 
The  one  beyant,  the  villyain,  her  temper's  fearful 

short; 
But  it's  in  this  place  we're  gathered,  an'  like  to  be 

till  death, 

Amn't  I  praying  every  minyit  to  love  them  as 
I  ought  ? 

Peace  and  good  will  the  angels  sing, 

And  let  you  love  your  brother ; 
But  angels  in  a  Workhouse  ward 
Would  maybe  hate  each  other. 

A  tidy-living  person  I  was  when  I  was  young, 

As  tidy-living  person  as  ever  walked  in  shoes. 
But  it's  quare  and  bad  ch'racters  I've  got  to  live 

among, 

Wid  some  that's  in  it  never  had  ch'racters  they 
could  lose. 

53 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

Peace  and  good  will  the  angels  sing, 
But  here's  a  world  of  sorrow. 

(Och,  glory  be !  ourselves  will  dine 
On  rale  roast  beef  to-morrow.) 


54 


THE  LITTLE  CHILDHER  IN  THE 
STREET 

THE  little  childher  in  the  street — 

It's  shipwrecked  sure  they  are  with  cold, 
There's  some  of  them  not  eight  years  old, 

And  ne'er  a  boot  upon  their  feet. 

To  beg  a  copper  they  go  far 

In  rain  and  frost,  in  snow  and  sleet. 
The  little  childher  in  the  street, 

You'd  pity  them  the  way  they  are. 

There's  other  childher  warmly  clad, 
That  live  in  houses  in  the  square, 
They  all  have  coppers  and  to  spare, 

The  sight  of  them  would  make  you  glad ; 

A  nurse,  be  sure,  is  never  far 

To  shield  them  from  the  rain  and  cold. 
They're  guarded  like  a  bag  of  gold — 

You'd  envy  them  the  way  they  are. 
55 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

Now  them  that  look  so  rich  and  grand, 
And  them  that  shiver  in  the  street, 
I  wonder  will  they  ever  meet 

And  walk  together  hand  in  hand. 

I  do  be  thinking  when  they're  small 
It's  like  they  are  as  peas  in  pod ; 
Maybe  they're  like  as  that  to  God — 

It's  sure  enough  He  made  them  all. 


A   FIRE   OF  TURF 


A  FIRE   OF  TURF 

IN  summer  time  I  foot  the  turf 
And  lay  the  sods  to  dry, 

South  wind  and  lark's  song,  and  the  sun  far  up  in 
the  sky. 

I  pile  them  on  the  turf  stack 
Against  the  time  of  snow, 

Black  frost,  a  gale  from  the  north,  who  minds  what 
winds  will  blow  ? 

Now  winter's  here,  make  up  the  fire, 
And  let  you  bolt  the  door. 

A  wind  across  the  mountains,  a  draught  across  the 
floor, 

Til  not  be  heeding  cold  or  rain, 
Or  moaning  of  the  wind, 

With  the  turf  fire,  the  hearth  stone,  the  notions  in 
my  mind. 

59 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

I've  seen  a  power  of  years  itself 
That's  gone  beyond  recall, 

The  leaves  of  spring,  the  days  of  youth,  where  are 
they  now  at  all  ? 

The  withered  leaves  lie  in  the  glen, 
The  days  of  youth  are  dead, 

Now  it's  long  nights  and  long  thoughts  while  the 
sods  o1  turf  glow  red. 

I  see  myself  a  barefoot  child, 
I  see  myself  a  lad, 

When  the  gold  upon  the  gorse  bush  was  all  the  gold 
I  had. 

I  do  be  having  fine  old  dreams 
Of  days  were  long  ago, 

When  the  wind  keens,  the  night  falls,  and  the  embers 
glow. 


60 


THE  OLD  MAN  REMEMBERS: 
THE   CHAPEL   ON   THE   HILL 

THE  Chapel  of  my  childhood 

Is  on  the  green  hillside, 
And  in  the  long  grass  up  the  hill 

The  graves  of  them  that's  died. 

My  mother  often  took  me 

When  I  was  young  and  small, 

Fd  kneel  upon  her  skirt  and  count 
The  Stations  on  the  wall. 

Each  evening  in  the  May  time 

The  Rosary  we'd  say; 
You'd  hear  bey  ant  the  Chapel  wall 

The  corncrakes  in  the  hay. 

The  flowers  round  the  altar, 
They  made  the  air  smell  sweet, 
61 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

And  cool  the  Chapel  floor  would  be 
To  little  childher's  feet. 

It's  scarce  a  day  was  passing 

But  there  I'd  be  awhile ; 
I  mind  the  way  the  boys'  bare  feet 

Went  patting  up  the  aisle. 

The  girls  would  come  from  lessons, 

And  kneel  to  say  a  prayer, 
You'd  see  the  noonday  sunshine  caught 

In  Mary  Connor's  hair. 


62 


VOICES 

OH,  Cuckoo,  Cuckoo  away  on  Knockree, 
"Tis  well  for  yourself  now  you're  idle  and  free, 
For  there  you  are  gaming  away  on  the  hill, 
And  I  in  the  schoolhouse  obliged  to  sit  still. 

Is  it  u  When  will  you  come  ?  " 

When  I  finish  my  sum. 

If  the  clock  would  strike  four 

Then  they'll  open  the  door. 

Let  you  call  me  then,  Cuckoo,  call  loud  and  I'll 
come. 

Away  in  the  meadow  the  corncrakes  shout 

"  Will  you  come  now  an'  seek  me  ?     Come  out,  come 

out. 

I'm  under  the  window,  I'm  close  to  the  wall, 
I'm  holding  the  world  up  for  fear  it  would  fall.* 

Am  I  under  your  feet, 

Or  away  in  the  wheat  ? 

*  According  to  a  country  legend  related  by  Mr.  Padraic  Colum, 
the  corncrake  lies  on  his  back  crying,  "I  hold  the  world." 

63 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

Let  you  seek  for  me  soon  ; 
I've  been  calling  since  noon." 
And  it's  here  I  sit  working,  nigh  kilt  with  the  heat. 

The  king  has  a  right  to  make  it  a  rule 
That  only  old  men  should  be  sitting  in  school. 
I'm  moidhered  with  voices  singing  and  humming, 
"  The  hours  are  passing  and  when  are  you  coming  ?  " 

Just  a  minyit  or  more 

An'  they'll  open  the  door. 

When  I've  finished  my  sum 

Be  aware !  for  I'll  come. 

Och  !     Now  glory  to  goodness  !  the  clock's  striking 
four! 


THE   FAIR 

OH  !  we're  off  to  the  Fair  now  the  lot  of  us  together, 
The    yellow   sunlight  everywhere — sure    that's    the 

lovely  weather! 
And  amn't  I  six  foot  high  to-day  with  pride  and  joy 

of  heart, 
The  way  I'm  driving  to  the  Fair  in  a  fine  new  ass- 

and-cart  ? 


The  pigs  are  screeching  merrily  at  all  the  jolts  and 

lurches, 
The  wonder  of  the  world  we  are  from  here  until  the 

Churches ; 
The  speckly  hen,  poor  decent  bird,  has  lost  her  wits 

with  scare, 
It's  well  you'd  know  the  noise  she  makes  that  we're 

going  to  the  Fair. 

65  F 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

The  quality  will  stare  when  they  see  the  way  we're 

driving, 
The  polis  stand  in  wonderment  to  watch  the  cart 

arriving ; 
And  the  people  that's  stravagin1  about  the  market 

square 
Will  be  kilt  with  envy  when  ourselves  come  driving 

to  the  Fair. 

But  the  best  time  of  all  is  the  time  the  evening 

closes, 
With  a  wind  blowing  from  the  south  is  sweet  with 

wild  hedge  roses. 
And  we're  counting  out  our  money  and  proud  and 

glad  of  heart 
The  way  weVe  driving  home  again  in  our  fine  new 

ass-and-cart. 


66 


QUESTIONS 

I  asked  old  Dan  the  fiddler  if  he  could  tell  me  true 
What  lies  beyond  the  mountains  that  rise  so  dim  an' 

blue. 
I  asked  him  if  the  sun  would  sleep  among  the  hills  at 

night 
The  time  you  see  Tibradden  dark  against  the  golden 

light? 

I  asked  him  did  the  leprechaun  hide  there  his  pot  of 

gold, 
An'  people  reach  a  hundred  and  no  one  think  them 

old; 
And  was  it  truth  the  rabbits   there  could  talk  if 

they'd  a  mind ; 
The  cows  be  Christianable  beasts,  the  goats  all  soft 

and  kind? 

67 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

I  asked  him  was  it  true  at  all  the  fruit  trees  there 

grew  wild 
With  pears  and  plums  and  apples  to  give  to  any 

child; 
And  had  he  seen  the  fairy  farms,  the  weeshy  sheep 

live  there, 
The  tiny  pigs  all  black  an'  white,  the  chuckins  small 

and  quare  ? 

Old  Dan  the  fiddler  answered,  "  The  place  is  there  to 

find, 

But  what  way  would  I  see  it  an'  I  so  nearly  blind  ? 
I've  travelled  all  the  mountain  roads,  the  bogs  where 

curlews  cry. 
I've  heard  the  heather  whisper  as  I  was  passing  by. 

"  There's  things  that's  plain  to  childher  the  likes  of 

us  can't  see, 
It's  when  you're  old  you  call  it  dreams,  an'  that's  the 

way,"  says  he. 
We  parted  at  the  cross  roads,  he  laughed  did  quare 

old  Dan— 
But  I'll  climb  the  mountains  surely,  the  time  I'm 

grown  a  man. 

68 


COWSLIP  TIME 

GOD  bless  the  time  when  cowslips  grow 

High  and  low,  high  and  low  ; 

When  never  a  place  you're  like  to  pass, 

But  there's  cowslips  deep  in  the  meadow  grass  ; 

Over  the  rath  when  the  winds  do  blow 

They're  swinging  and  nodding  to  and  fro, 

Oh  !  it's  well  to  be  young  when  the  cowslips  grow  ! 

Old  age  will  come — what  matter  so  ? 

High  and  low,  high  and  low 

The  cowslips  shine  when  the  spring  conies  round, 

In  every  meadow  and  patch  of  ground. 

And  you'll  watch  your  childher's  childher  go 

Off  to  the  fields  where  the  spring  winds  blow. 

Oh !  it's  well  for  the  world  when  the  cowslips  grow 


69 


SCARED 

THESE  dusky  evenings  in  December 

I  do  be  scared  with  sudden  fright, 
So  many  things  you'd  disremember 
Shows  quare  an1  darkish  in  the  night. 
Sure  kilt  you'd  be  if  a  dog  should  bark, 
Or  an  old  cow  wheeze  in  the  lonesome  dark  ; 
For  who  can  tell  who's  in  it  at  all, 
With  the  Tax  man  murdered  there  by  the  wall, 
An'  the  druidy  stone  foreninst  the  wood, 
Where  you'd  maybe  see  what  isn't  good. 
An'  the  haunted  house — Och  !  glory  be, 
There's  a  power  of  terrible  things  you'd  see 
In  the  dark. 

I'm  feared  itself  lest  some  black  stranger 

Would  step  behind  me  on  the  grass ; 
Or  goodness  knows  what  sudden  danger 

Might  lep  upon  me  as  I  pass. 
70 


SCARED 

For  strange  an'  lonesome  the  roads  do  seem 

Like  a  far-off  place  you'd  see  in  a  dream  ; 

An1  you'd  never  know  who  you'd  meet  at  the 

turn, 

Old  crazy  Nelly  or  mad  John  Byrne, 
Or  the  headless  one  that  wrings  her  hands, 
Where  the  old  deserted  cabin  stands, 
Or  the  fairy  dog.    Och  !  glory  be — 
There's  a  power  of  terrible  things  you'd  see 
In  the  dark. 


BLACKBERRY  TIME 

IN  blackberry  time  herself  and  me 
We  do  be  up  by  break  of  day  ; 

An'  "  God  go  with  us  now,"  says  she, 
"  The  time  we're  thravellin'  on  our  way, 

An1  God  go  with  us  all  the  while 

We're  thravellin'  on  from  mile  to  mile." 

Tis  up  Glencullen  way  we  are — 
The  berries  there  is  fine  and  sweet ; 

But  kilt  you'd  be,  it  is  so  far, 

When  you  go  thravellin'  on  your  feet. 

Och  !  weary  miles  ere  you'd  come  down 

From  far  Glencullen  to  the  town. 

Up  there  at  dawn  'tis  quare  and  still, 
And  dew  lies  heavy  on  the  ground. 

But  berries  for  a  basket's  fill 
Grows  on  the  bushes  all  around. 
72 


BLACKBERRY  TIME 

And  whiles  well  rest  and  eat  a  few 
That's  sodden  wid  the  heavy  dew. 

We  traipis  round  from  door  to  door, 
Tis  weary  in  the  noonday  heat. 

(May  God  have  mercy  on  the  poor 
That  thravels  round  upon  their  feet !) 

For  sure  you're  moidhered  in  the  town, 

The  way  the  carts  go  up  an1  down. 

But  when  we're  quit  of  all  our  load, 

"  Now  God  be  praised  for  that,"  says  she 

And  back  we  go  the  homeward  road, 
Near  bet  we  are  herself  and  me. 

Och  !  sure  the  thought  of  home  is  sweet 

To  thim  that  thravels  on  their  feet. 


73 


THE  WEST   WIND 

LAST  night  the  air  was  cold  and  still, 
No  breeze  was  moving  in  Glendhu ; 
The  golden  beech  leaves  scarcely  stirred 
Above  my  head  as  I  went  through. 
From  every  cottage  rose  the  smoke, 
An1  not  a  breath  its  column  broke. 
Brown  in  the  glen  the  bracken  grew, 
No  broken  leaf  or  stem  you'd  find. 
But  after  dawn  the  gale  awoke, 
The  world  seemed  rocking  in  the  wind. 

Across  the  Wicklow  hills  he  came, 
The  herdsmen  felt  his  great  wings  beat ; 
The  waves  of  Lough  Nahanagan 
Were  ruffled  by  his  flying  feet ; 
The  Vale  of  Clara  felt  him  pass 
Swift-foot  across  the  meadow  grass ; 
74 


THE    WEST   WIND 

They  heard  him  where  the  waters  meet, 
He  made  the  pines  and  larches  sway  ; 
He  crossed  the  stream  at  Glenmacnass, 
And  blew  the  falls  to  silver  spray. 

They  heard  his  pipes  in  Glenmalure, 
He  sang  a  song  of  Western  seas ; 
The  withered  leaves  in  Glendalough 
Rose  up  and  rustled  round  his  knees ; 
He  shook  the  beeches  of  Glendhu 
To  golden  rain  as  he  passed  through. 
He  bent  Glencullen's  tallest  trees, 
His  breath  was  rough  on  bird  and  beast, 
Across  the  mountain  tops  he  flew 
To  take  his  pleasure  in  the  east. 

Oh,  wild  wind  from  the  distant  west, 
Be  still  again  and  give  us  rest. 


75 


SONGS   IN   THREE  COUNTIES 


SAYS   SHE 

MY  Granny  she  often  says  to  me, 
Says  she,  "  You're  terrible  bold, 
It's  you  have  a  right  to  mend  your  ways 
Before  you'll  ever  grow  old," 

Says  she. 

"  Before  you'll  ever  grow  old. 
For  it's  steadfast  now  that  you  ought  to  be, 
An'  you  going  on  sixteen,"  says  she. 
"  What'll  you  do  when  you're  old  like  me  ? 
What'll  you  do  ?  "  says  she. 

"  What  will  I  do  when  I'm  old  ?  "  says  I. 
"  Och  Musha,  I'll  say  my  prayers, 
I'll  wear  a  net  an'  a  black  lace  cap 
To  cover  my  silver  hairs," 

Says  I. 

"  To  cover  my  silver  hairs. 
79 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

When  I  am  as  old  as  Kate  Kearney's  cat 
I'll  sell  my  dress  and  featherdy  hat, 
An'  buy  an  old  bedgown  the  like  o'  that, 
The  very  like  o'  that." 


My  Granny  she  sighs  and  says  to  me, 
"  The  years  fly  terrible  fast, 
The  girls  they  laugh  an'  talk  with  the  boys, 
But  they  all  grow  old  at  last," 

Says  she. 

"  They  all  grow  old  at  last. 
At  Epiphany  cocks  may  skip,"  says  she, 
"  But  kilt  by  Easter  they're  like  to  be. 
By  the  Hokey !  you'll  grow  as  old  as  me, 
As  weak  an'  old,"  says  she. 


"  Maybe  you  tell  me  no  lie,"  says  I, 

"  But  I've  time  before  me  yet. 

There's  time  to  dance  and  there's  time  to  sing, 

So  why  would  I  need  to  fret  ?  " 

Says  I. 
"  So  why  would  I  need  to  fret  ? 


SAYS  SHE 

Old  age  may  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
Twixt  hoppin1  and  trottin'  we'll  get  there  still. 
Why  wouldn't  we  dance  while  we  have  the  will, 
Dance  while  we  have  the  will  ?  " 


Si 


EASTER  SNOW 

(Written  to  the  tune  "  Easter  Snow,"  in  Miss  Honoiia  Gal- 
wey's  Collection  of  Irish  Airs.  When  the  blackthorn  blossoms 
are  falling  the  country  people  call  it  Easter  snow.) 

MY  jewel  of  the  world,  she  sleeps  so  fast, 

She  will  not  hear  you,  Spring  wind,  if  you  blow  ; 

So  let  you  shake  the  blossoms  of  the  thorn 
Till  her  bed  is  hidden  deep  in  Easter  snow. 

Bright  jewel  of  my  heart,  she  sleeps  at  last, 

O  kind  Earth,  wrap  her  round  in  your  brown  shawl. 

Sing  soft  to  her  and  rock  her  in  your  arms 
So  she'll  not  be  lonesome  after  me  at  all. 

I  hear  the  chilulier  laugh  as  they  run  past, 
They  see  their  mother  watching  at  the  door ; 

It's  long  111  wait  beside  the  lonely  hearth, 

For  there's  sorra  child  of  mine  will  cross  the  floor. 
82 


EASTER  SNOW 

O  thorn  trees  round  her  grave,  now  let  you  cast 
Your  snow  upon  the  place  she  takes  her  rest, 

The  while  I  stay  and  cheat  my  heart  with  dreams 
That  I'm  holding  her  again  upon  my  breast. 


BOYS 

I  DO  be  thinking  God  must  laugh 

The  time  He  makes  a  boy ; 

All  element  the  creatures  are, 

And  divilmint  and  joy. 

Careless  and  gay  as  a  wad  in  a  window,* 

Swift  as  a  redshanks,  and  wild  as  a  hare ; 

Heartscalds  and  torments — but  sorra  a  mother 

Has  got  one  to  spare. 


*  "  Wad  in  a  window."  The  bunch  of  rags  so  often  seen 
fluttering  from  the  broken  windows  of  an  Irish  cabin ;  hence  the 
frequent  use  of  this  comparison. 

84 


MY  BLESSING  BE  ON  WATERFORD 

MY  blessing  be  on  Waterford,  the  town  of  ships, 

For  it's  what  I  love  to  be  streeling  on  the  quay, 
Watching  while  the  boats  go  out,  watching  them 

come  in, 

And  thinking  of  a  one  I  know  that's  sailing  far 
away. 

It's  well  to  be  in  Waterford,  to  see  the  ships, 

The  great  big  masts  of  them  against  the  evening 

sky, 

Seagulls  flying  round,  and  the  men  unloading  them, 
With  quare  strange  talk  among   themselves  the 
time  you're  passing  by. 

I  love  to  be  in  Waterford,  to  see  the  ships  come  in, 
Bringing  in  their  cargoes  from  west,  and  east,  and 

south. 

Some  day  one  I  love  will  stand  here  upon  the  quay, 
He'll  take  my  two  hands  in  his  own,  and  stoop  to 
kiss  my  mouth. 

85 


THIEF  OF  THE  WORLD 

OH,  it's  little  Rosanne  is  the  rogue  of  the  world  ! 

If  it's  villany  in  it, 
Herself  will  be  there, 

An'  it's  like  she'll  begin  it 
With  time  an'  to  spare. 

For  she's  pullin'  my  coat, 

Or  she's  teasing  the  goat, 

Or  huntin'  the  chuckins, 

The  little  old  dote. 

Or  maybe  she's  off'  on  her  two  little  toes, 
An'  the  Mischief  is  puzzled  to  guess  where  she  goes. 

Oh,  it's  little  Rosanne  is  the  thief  of  the  world  ! 
If  you're  hearin'  her  laughter, 

You'd  best  be  aware, 
For  there's  something  she's  after. 
But  who  can  tell  where  ? 


THIEF  OF  THE    WORLD 

Och  !  she's  lookin'  for  eggs, 

Or  the  basket  of  pegs, 

Or  she's  chasm"1  the  ducks 

Till  they're  run  off  their  legs. 
There's  nothin'   that's   safe!    I've  a  right  now   to 

know, — 
For  she's  stolen  my  heart  on  me  three  years  ago. 


87 


THE  KERRY  COW 

IT'S  in  Connacht  or  in  Munster  that  yourself  might 

travel  wide, 
And  be  asking  all  the  herds  you'd  meet  along  the 

country-side, 
But  you'd  never  meet  a  one  could  show  the  likes  of 

her  till  now, 
Where  she's  grazing  in  a  Leinster  field — my  little 

Kerry  cow. 

If  herself  went  to  the  cattle  fairs  she'd  put  all  cows 

to  shame, 
For  the  finest  poets  of  the  land  would  meet  to  sing 

her  fame ; 
And  the  young  girls  would  be  asking  leave  to  stroke 

her  satin  coat, 
They'd  be  praising  and  caressing  her,  and  calling 

her  a  dote. 


THE  KERRY  COW 

If  the  King  of  Spain  gets  news  of  her  he'll  fill  his 

purse  with  gold, 
And  set  sail  to  ask  the  English  King  where  she  is  to 

be  sold. 
But  the  King  of  Spain  may  come  to  me,  a  crown 

upon  his  brow. 
It  is  he  may  keep  his  golden  purse — and  I  my  Kerry 

cow. 


The  priest  maybe  will  tell  her  fame  to  the  Holy 

Pope  of  Rome, 
And  the  Cardinals1  College  send  for  her  to  leave  her 

Irish  home ; 
But  it's  heart-broke  she  would  be  itself  to  cross  the 

Irish  sea, 
'Twould  be  best  they'd  send  a  blessing  to  my  Kerry 

cow  and  me. 


When  the  Ulster  men  hear  tell  of  her,  they'll  come 

with  swords  an'  pikes, 
For  it's  civil  war  there'll  be  no  less  if  they  should  see 

her  likes, 

89 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

And  you'll  read  it  on  the  paper  of  the  bloody  fight 

there's  been, 
An'   the   Orangemen    they're   burying   in    fields   of 

Leinster  green. 

There  are  red  cows  that's  contrary,  and  there's  white 

cows  quare  and  wild, 

But  my  Kerry  cow  is  biddable,  an'  gentle  as  a  child. 
You  may  rare  up  kings  and  heroes  on  the  lovely 

milk  she  yields, 
For  she's  fit  to  foster  generals  to  fight  our  battlefields. 

In  the  histories  they'll  be  making  they've  a  right  to 

put  her  name 
With  the  horse  of  Troy  and  Oisin's  hounds  and  other 

beasts  of  fame. 
And  the  painters  will  be  painting  her  beneath  the 

hawthorn  bough 
Where  she's  grazing  on  the  good  green  grass — my 

little  Kerry  cow. 


90 


SPRING,  THE   TRAVELLING  MAN 

SPRING,  the  Travelling  Man,  has  been  here, 

Here  in  the  glen  ; 
He  must  have  passed  by  in  the  grey  of  the  dawn, 

When  only  the  robin  and  wren 

Were  awake, 
Watching  out  with  their  bright  little  eyes 

In  the  midst  of  the  brake. 

The  rabbits,  maybe,  heard  him  pass, 

Stepping  light  on  the  grass, 
Whistling  careless  and  gay  at  the  break  o'  the  day. 

Then  the  blackthorn  to  give  him  delight 

Put  on  raiment  of  white  : 

And  all  for  his  sake. 

The  gorse  on  the  hill,  where  he  rested  an  hour, 

Grew  bright  with  a  splendour  of  flower. 

My  grief!  that  I  was  not  aware 

Of  himself  being  there ; 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

It  is  I  would  have  given  my  dower 

To  have  seen  him  set  forth, 

Whistling  careless  and  gay  in  the  grey  of  the  morn, 
By  gorse  bush  and  fraughan  and  thorn, 

On  his  way  to  the  north. 


92 


THE   RICH   WOMAN 

HAY  in  the  haggard,  and  cows  in  the  byre, 
A  turf  stack  is  filled  with  its  store  for  the  fire. 
What  way  am  I  wanting  my  heart's  deep  desire  ? 

Linen  new  woven  and  meal  in  the  chest, 

A  cloak  of  red  frieze  that  I  bought  in  the  west  : 

But  sorra  a  babe  I  can  rock  on  my  breast. 

Money  laid  by  and  a  parcel  of  land, 

A  boat  in  the  harbour,  the  house  where  I  stand — 

But  God  !  for  a  child  that  would  clutch  at  my  hand. 

Milk  and  fresh  butter  and  flour  to  spare, 

The  chuckins,  the  goats,  an'  the  turkeys  to  rare  : 

But  never  a  little  wee  child  I  can  care. 

The  beggar  goes  by,  a  babe  in  her  shawl, 
A  wee  one  streels  after  and  runs  at  her  call. 
Tis  I  am  the  beggar,  and  she  that  has  all. 
93 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

God  send  me  a  child  with  the  sorrow  and  pain, 
Let  him  waken  the  quiet  and  squander  the  gain, 
For  I'm  counting  my  riches  and  plenty  in  vain. 

A  child  that  will  know  to  spoil  and  to  tear, 
What  matter  the  trouble  and  moidher  and  care, 
So  I'm  hearing  the  fall  of  his  feet  on  the  stair  ? 

A  beggar  I  am — shall  I  not  be  blessed 

With  a  baby  come  home  that  will  sleep  on  my  breast  ? 

Let  me  be  a  mother,  O  Christ,  with  the  rest ! 


GLORNY'S   WEIR 

AT  night  when  the  world  was  sleepy  and  still, 
I'd  wake,  maybe,  in  the  depth  o1  the  dark, 
And  think  of  the  river  below  the  hill, 
That  flows  so  fast  by  the  ruined  old  mill. 
Never  a  sound  beside  would  I  hear, 
But  the  water  roaring  at  Glorny's  Weir. 

Fd  think  to  myself  how  day  would  come  soon, 
The  water-hens  wake,  and  the  wagtails  stir, 
The  kingfisher  flash  in  the  light  of  the  noon 
From  the  willowy  banks  of  Knockmaroon. 
But  through  the  day  you  could  scarcely  hear 
The  voice  of  the  river  at  Glorny's  Weir. 

I'd  wake  in  the  depth  o1  the  dark,  maybe, 

When  the  friendly  voices  of  day  were  still ; 

95 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

But  the  river  would  lift  its  song  for  me, 
Down  from  the  mountains  off  to  the  sea. 
And  glad  was  I  in  the  night  to  hear 
The  roar  of  the  waters  at  Glorny's  Weir. 


IRISH   SKIES 

IN  London  here  the  streets  are  grey,  an1  grey  the  sky 

above ; 

I  wish  I  were  in  Ireland  to  see  the  skies  I  love — 
Pearl  cloud,  buff  cloud,  the  colour  of  a  dove. 


All  day  I  travel  English  streets,  but  in  my  dreams  I 
tread 

The  far  Glencullen  road  and  see  the  soft  sky  over- 
head, 

Grey  clouds,  white  clouds,  the  wind  has  shepherded. 


At  night  the  London  lamps  shine  bright,  but  what 

are  they  to  me  ? 
I've  seen  the  moonlight  in  Glendhu,  the  stars  above 

Glenchree — 

The  lamps  of  Heav'n  give  light  enough  for  me. 
97  « 


SONGS  FROM   LEINSTER 

The  city  in  the  winter  time  put  on  a  shroud  of 

smoke, 
But  the  sky  above  the  Three  rock  was  blue  as  Mary's 

cloak, 
Ruffled  like  doves'  wings  when  the  wind  awoke. 

I  dream  I  see  the  Wicklow  hills  by  evening  sunlight 

kissed, 
An'  every  glen  and  valley  there  brimful  of  radiant 

mist — 
The  jewelled  sky  topaz  and  amethyst. 

I  wake  to  see  the  London  streets,  the  sombre  sky 

above, 
God's  blessing  on  the  far-off  roads,  and  on  the  skies  I 

love, — 
Pearl  feather,  grey  feather,  wings  of  a  dove. 


THE   KIND   COMPANION 

I  lost  my  kind  companion  this  Friday  was  a  week, 
The  likes  of  him,  my  decent  man,  you  might  go  far 
to  seek. 

Tis  woeful  now,  my  comrade  gone, 

To  be  so  sad  and  lone, 
Myself  upon  the  green  earth  still, 
An"1  him  beneath  a  stone. 

A  quiet  man  he  always  was,  and  quietly  he  died, 
With  ne'er  a  word  and  ne'er  a  call  to  bring  me  to  his 
side. 

My  grief,  my  grief !  the  way  I  am 

To  sit  here  lone  and  sad, 

An'  never  see  himself,  or  hear 

The  kindly  word  he  had. 

Ah  !  whisper,  honey,  quare  old  ways  I  have  for  lettin' 

on 
That  he's  still  in  it  all  the  time  I  know  his  body's 

gone. 

99 


SONGS   FROM  LEINSTER 

For  sometimes  when  I  wet  the  tay, 

I  do  be  talking  fast, 
Pretending  all  the  whiles  himself 

Will  answer  me  at  last. 

An*  sometimes,  sitting  by  the  fire,  I  think  I  hear  his 

tread, 

"  Tis  sure  himself,"  I  say  those  times,  "  that's  stirrin1 
overhead.11 

'Tis  only  notions  that  I  have 

That  do  divert  my  mind, 
When  waiting  here  in  lonesomeness 
I  hear  the  rising  wind. 

'Tis  closing  in  on  fifty  year  since  him  and  me  got 

wed, 

A  quiet  man  he  always  was,  an1  few  the  words  he 
said; 

But  sure  he  had  a  right  itself 

To  take  me  with  him  too. 
My  quiet  kind  companion, 
That  God  may  welcome  you  ! 


SONG 

IF  you  let  Sorrow  in  on  you, 

Surely  shell  stay, 
Sitting  there  by  the  hearth 

Till  you  wish  her  away. 

If  you  see  the  grey  cloak  of  her 

Down  the  boreen, 
Let  you  close  the  door  softly 

And  wait  there  unseen. 

For  if  she  comes  in  on  you 

Never  you'll  part, 
Till  the  fire  burns  out 

In  the  core  of  your  heart. 


DREAMS 

MY  son  is  in  America 

Away  beyond  the  sea, 
But  in  his  dreams  he  comes  back  home, 

And  looks  out  towards  Knockree. 
He  sees  the  ribbon  of  white  road 

Go  winding  towards  Glenchree, 
And  he  knocks  with  his  stick  on  the  open  door 

To  call  herself  and  me. 

All  day  he's  working  in  the  town, 

And  moidhered  with  the  street, 
But  in  his  dreams  he  feels  the  grass — 

The  grass  beneath  his  feet. 
He  wanders  up  the  green  hill-side, 

The  elder  bloom  smells  sweet, 
Then  he  praises  God  for  the  Irish  air 

And  reek  of  burning  peat. 


DREAMS 

The  wonders  of  the  West  he 

For  men  of  wealth  live  there 
In  houses  reaching  to  the  stars, 

With  everything  that's  fair. 
"  But  och  !  "  says  he,  "  the  hills  for  me, 

The  sight  of  grouse  or  hare, 
The  cry  of  the  curlews  over  the  bog, 

The  breath  of  Irish  air."1 


103 


BLESSINGS 

IT'S  what  I  thank  God  for  each  night, 
A  little  cabin  that's  mine  by  right, 
The  strength  of  a  man  for  work  or  fight, 
And  food  and  light. 

It's  what  I  thank  God  for  each  day — 
A  wife  with  never  too  much  to  say, 
A  wife,  a  dog,  and  a  child  for  play, 
For  those  I'd  pray. 

I  thank  God  for  the  land  I  tread, 
A  pipe  to  smoke  and  an  easy  bed, 
The  thatch  I  made  that's  over  my  head, 
And  daily  bread. 

I  thank  God  for  an  Irish  name, 
And  a  son  of  mine  to  bear  the  same, 
My  own  to  love  me  and  none  to  blame : 
No  more  I'd  claim. 

104 


SCHOLARS 

IT  is  pity  I  have, 

And  that  is  a  truth, 
For  the  Trinity  men 

And  the  men  of  Maynooth. 
The  men  of  Maynooth  are  the  like  o1  the  rooks, 
With   their   solemn    black   coats   an'  their   serious 

looks. 

An"1  the  Trinity  men  are  no  better  at  all, 
For  when  they're  not  studyin'  deep  in  their  books 
Their  only  diversion  is  batting  a  ball, 
An1  that  is  a  truth. 

If  myself  now  were  there 

My  heart  would  be  broke, 
For  the  smell  o1  the  earth 

Or  a  whiff  of  peat  smoke. 
The  weight  of  their  learning  would  sure  have  me 

bet, 

Fd  sell  all  their  books  for  an  old  fishing  net, 
105 


SONGS  FROM  LEINS7ER 

And  pawn  their  professors  for  Danny's  young  horse. 
Och  !  glory  to  goodness,  I'd  pine  and  I'd  fret 
For  the  mountainy  wind  an'  the  smell  o'  the  gorse, 
An1  that  is  a  truth. 

It's  the  old  ones  that's  there, 

They'd  ask  a  poor  lad 
To  be  searching  his  mind 

For  what  knowledge  he  had. 
For    learning  in    poaching   they'd   give    me   small 

thanks, 

Or  for  tricks  to  catch  trout  hidden  under  the  banks. 
There's  much  I  could   tell  them  of  grouse  and  of 

hare, 

But  still  they'd  not  bid  me  to  enter  their  ranks, 
An'  faith  !     I'm  not  wishful  to  be  with  them  there, 
An'  that  is  a  truth. 


106 


PRAYER    FOR   A   LITTLE    CHILD 

GOD  keep  my  jewel  this  day  from  danger  ; 

From  tinker  and  pooka  and  black-hearted  stranger. 

From  harm  of  the  water,  from  hurt  of  the  fire. 

From  the  horns  of  the  cows  going  home  to  the  byre. 

From  sight  of  the  fairies  that  maybe  might  change 
her. 

From  teasing  the  ass  when  he's  tied  to  the  manger. 

From  stones  that  would  bruise  her,  from  thorns  of 
the  briar. 

From  red  evil  berries  that  wake  her  desire. 

From  hunting  the  gander  and  vexing  the  goat. 

From  the  depths  o1  sea  water  by  Danny's  old  boat. 

From  cut  and  from  tumble,  from  sickness  and  weep- 
ing; 

May  God  have  my  jewel  this  day  in  His  keeping. 


107 


TIM,   AN   IRISH  TERRIER 

IT'S  wonderful  dogs  they're  breeding  now  : 

Small  as  a  flea  or  large  as  a  cow 

But  my  old  lad  Tim  he'll  never  be  bet 

By  any  dog  that  ever  he  met. 

"Come  on,"  says  he,  "  for  I'm  not  kilt  yet/ 

No  matter  the  size  of  the  dog  he'll  meet, 
Tim  trails  his  coat  the  length  o'  the  street. 
D'ye  mind  his  scars  an'  his  ragged  ear, 
The  like  of  a  Dublin  Fusilier  ? 
He's  a  massacree  dog  that  knows  no  fear. 

But  he'd  stick  to  me  till  his  latest  breath  ; 
An'  he'd  go  with  me  to  the  gates  of  death. 
He'd  wait  for  a  thousand  years,  maybe, 
Scratching  the  door  an'  whining  for  me 
If  myself  were  inside  in  Purgatary. 
108 


TIM,   AN  IRISH   TERRIER 

So  I  laugh  when  I  hear  thim  make  it  plain 
That  dogs  and  men  never  meet  again. 
For  all  their  talk  who'd  listen  to  thim, 
With  the  soul  in  the  shining  eyes  of  him  ? 
Would  God  be  wasting  a  dog  like  Tim  ? 


109 


TO  C.   L.   G.,    IN   GRATITUDE 

THE  blessings  of  blessings  for  him 
That  has  always  time  to  be  kind, 
A  blessing  running  before, 
A  blessing  trottin1  behind  ; 
An  angel  caring  his  house 
To  drive  away  every  sorrow ; 
Good  luck  at  his  heels  to-day, 
Good  luck  on  his  path  to-morrow. 
A  place  for  him  up  in  Heav'n, 
And  St.  Peter  there  at  the  gate 
With  the  kindly  welcome  word 
And  himself  not  bid  to  wait : 
For  I'm  thinking  the  saint  will  say, 
"  Come  in  here  out  of  the  wind, 
It's  not  so  often  I  see 
A  man  that  has  time  to  be  kind." 


A  SOFT  DAY 

I1    A  soft  day,  thank  God  ! 
A  wind  from  the  south 
With  a  honeyed  mouth ; 
A  scent  of  drenching  leaves, 
Briar  and  beech  and  lime, 
White  elder-flower  and  thyme 
And  the  soaking  grass  smells  sweet, 
Crushed  by  my  two  bare  feet, 

While  the  rain  drips, 
Drips,  drips,  drips  from  the  eaves. 

A  soft  day,  thank  God  ! 

The  hills  wear  a  shroud 

Of  silver  cloud  ; 

The  web  the  spider  weaves 

Is  a  glittering  net ; 

The  woodland  path  is  wet, 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

And  the  soaking  earth  smells  sweet 
Under  my  two  bare  feet, 
And  the  rain  drips, 
Drips,  drips,  drips  from  the  leaves. 


112 


THE  CHRISTMAS  GUEST 

IF  Mary  came  to  the  door  to-night, 

In  the  bitter  wind  and  soaking  rain  ; 

If  she  came  to  me  in  her  sorry  plight, 

To  plead  as  one  woman  pleads  with  another, 

As  mothers  come  in  their  need  to  a  mother ; 

If  Mary  came  in  the  wind  and  rain, 

She  never  should  beg  at  my  door  in  vain. 

If  Mary  came  to  the  door  to-night, 

Her  Baby  sleeping  upon  her  breast, 

Saying,  "  Let  you  share  with  me  warmth  and  light, 

For  I  bear  in  my  arms  the  World's  Desire, 

But  cold  are  His  limbs,  and  we  have  no  fire  ; 

O  stranger  woman,  may  you  be  blessed, 

If  you  open  your  door  and  give  us  rest." 

If  Mary  stood  and  knocked  at  my  door, 
A  thousand  welcomes  herself  should  find  ; 
113  i 


SONGS  FROM  LEINSTER 

And  she'd  not  be  scorning  a  house  so  poor, 
With  the  homespun  linen  upon  the  table : 
No  place  she  found  one  time  but  a  stable — 
With  the  poor  dumb  beasts  were  good  and  kind — 
And  a  thatch  to  shield  her  from  rain  and  wind. 

If  Mary  came,  the  Mother  of  God, 

The  Rose  of  the  World  upon  her  breast ; 

Oh !  Td  sweep  the  ashes,  and  turn  the  sod, 

And  bring  her  new  bread  and  cakes  of  my  baking, 

With  the  freshest  butter,  this  morning's  making. 

Happy  the  home  could  offer  rest 

To  the  new-born  Child,  earth's  Christmas  Guest. 


PRINTED  BY  WILLIAM  CLOWES  AND  SONS,  LIMITED,  LONDON  AND    BECCLES. 


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